A view of the martyr turkey's funeral from stiff seats-
Carved wood bracing my sway back, hiding my face behind the centerpiece.
I see you've surrendered, on your back, giving birth to bulbous onions, celery, steaming and simmering exudate, a sweaty mother calling out for her sacrificial lamb.
I push my fist into your carcass while you're still on the operating table-
I feel around inside, and it's warm, moist, sticky on my foreign fingers.
Let's carve you up and dish you out, and let hated family members consume your flesh.
A sweet and fitting death.
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